Chapter 1<br /> "#31, no onion," I repeated mechanically from behind the counter. "No hot sauce. That'll be<br /> $4.26. Five minutes."<br /> The woman ordering the food fussed over the coins, cobbling together change from pockets and pouches. I threw the money in the drawer quickly, before she could change her mind. I knew she<br /> wouldn't be satisfied with her choice. All the signs were there, the anxious rereading of the menu and the side-glances at the plates of other people in the food court. The food would be too slimy. There would be too many strange vegetables. She should have stuck to the chow mein, or maybe some potstickers with plum sauce.<br /> So what? It was none of my business. All I wanted to do was grab Tommy and go home. I had<br /> a history paper due in the morning. Another customer headed for our stall. Badluck, I thought to myself. It was Mr. Finch, one of my teachers from Oak Ridge High, the one to blame for the history assignment that loomed over me. He must have come straight from school. He was still dressed in his old wool jacket, the sleeves dipped in chalk.<br /> "Wah!" my mother exclaimed from the cramped kitchen. She nagged at me in Mandarin. "Avvy, pay attention. This order ready to bag."<br /> Normally if I saw someone I knew at the foodand-trinkets court, which was hardly ever, I'd slip<br /> out of our stall and head past the bakery toward the tunnel, the wide mouth that separated us from the big mall. There, I could hide among the shoe shops and clothing stores. Too bad escape was out of the question this time. I kept my head down, bagging hot orders and taking new ones. Maybe Mr. Finch<br /> wouldn't recognize me.<br /> "Fried rice with egg, no pork, please," Mr. Finch said. He patted the pocket of his jacket. "I<br /> seem to have forgotten the wallet. Good thing I keep a spare bill."<br /> I nodded, keeping my face angled toward the cash register. He moved aside and stood patiently<br /> by Madame Cho's bakery next door. As soon as my mom scooped the rice meal, I bagged it, doing<br /> my signature twist to the plastic ends, nestling them inside each other.<br /> "Chopsticks?" I asked.<br /> "No," he replied. "Thanks anyway."<br /> "You're welcome," I mumbled.<br /> Serving Mr. Finch in our food court was a bit of a jolt. The neighbourhood where I lived was a community of immigrants. Oak Ridge High was some distance away, across a rail bridge and through a maze of suburban streets. It was definitely part of the older, richer side of town. I only attended the<br /> school because the apartment building where we lived straddled some municipal line. For the next forty minutes, orders came faster than spatters of fat.<br /> "Beef with black bean and rice noodle."<br /> "Moo Goo Guy Pan."<br /> "Vegetable Lo Mein."<br /> I operated on automatic. My mother and father kept up a constant barrage of words while they<br /> worked. They drained noodles and tossed shavings of meat and vegetables back and forth in the<br /> woks of the cooker. The noise of the food court, the drone of our old fan, and the sizzling grease<br /> added to the din. When my brother Tommy arrived from school, he made everything worse.<br /> Tommy never could settle down and stay quiet.<br /> "Where's your books?" my mother nagged. "How you going to live in a big house if you don't do<br /> homework?" She grabbed a highlighter and some papers. "Here. Put yellow line on Heavenly Meal<br /> Special, #6. Make important."<br /> Tommy deflated as if someone had poked him with a pin. He crouched behind the freezer with<br /> the pile of menus. Afterwards he folded them into pamphlets. I felt a little sorry for him. "So, where's<br /> your new friend?" I asked.<br /> "He's just stupid," Tommy said. He scribbled over one of the papers.<br /> I turned back to packing and rolled my eyes. It was always the same. My brother never kept a<br /> friend for long. He was a ten-year-old misfit. Right then he was wearing blue shorts, though summer<br /> was way over, and his legs stuck out like vermicelli. One knee was skinned.<br /> "Are those guys bothering you again?" I prodded in Mandarin as I took an order for pepper pork.<br /> I didn't hear him answer. The lady pacing between our stall and the bakery leaned over the<br /> counter.<br /> "Is my meal ready?" she whined. "I've been waiting at least fifteen minutes."<br /> I went to the kitchen to grab her order. My dad had put together her choices, three of them, in twoand-<br /> a-half minutes, tops. And she knew it. But I kept my face quiet. We never showed irritation to the customers. That was one thing my parents had drummed into me a long time ago.<br /> "Fork or chopsticks?" I asked, adding all the extras, the napkins and sauces.<br /> "Four forks," she said impatiently.<br /> My mother gave Tommy some hot rice with shrimp. It was a wonder he wasn't as fat as a blimp, the way she was always trying to get him to eat, coaxing him with bean curd and shredded vegetables. But he stayed as thin as a stick. That's what my mother called him her little stick-man.<br /> "Take some food to Mrs. Dong," she said, shoving a Styrofoam container at him. "She need to eat too."<br /> Tommy liked Mrs. Dong. He skipped happily across the

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Excerpted from Thief Girl by Ingrid Lee
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